


The King is dead... Long live the King!

by truc



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Injustice: Gods Among Us, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Death, Drama, F/M, Gen, M/M, Weird?, king/vassal, legacy, right hand man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-04-07 07:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19080337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: King Charles (Clark Kent) is dying. Bertram (Bruce Wayne), his loyal vassal, takes care of everything.





	The King is dead... Long live the King!

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the names used are as follows:
> 
> Olyver= Oliver  
> Hamond= Hal  
> Bartholomew= Barry  
> Arthur= Arthur  
> Bertram= Bruce  
> Conand= Conner  
> Charles= Clark  
> Alexander= Lex  
> John= Jonathan  
> Diamanda= Diana  
> Luce= Lois

The sun filtered in the room. It did not so much brighten the room as it highlighted in vivid colour the dying's man's appearance. The man's blue eyes, previously unextinguishable stars in very dark times, seemed sunken and grey in his orbit. The pale and drawn whiteness of the man's face contrasted with the red bed sheets and the furs on his bed. His princely blue robes made him look barely teetered to the world. 

Shimmering on the edge of existence, a king was still a king. 

Where a common man would die in peace, a king's responsibility laid heavy on his shoulders until his ultimate demise. 

Charles breathed in loudly, savouring the air in all of its delicacies. He sensed this would be his last day on Earth. 

His wife Luce sat at his side, both hands on his. Even together, the hands were dwarfed by his own hand.

Charles took in her pale but brave face. She deserved better than to stand by his side as his soul slowly lifted to Heaven. She prayed and sung for him, hands cold against his forehead. 

"Charles," She said, the hope of his recovery all but evaporated.

"Luce, my love," his heart sang through his mouth. 

"Why don't we just stay here, together until the end?"

Charles sadly shook his head, "I have duties to attend, businesses to conclude."

"Bertram can take care of it, Charles. It's his duties."

The black-robed man nicknamed the Black Monk answered from the corner of the room. "It is the least I can do, my Liege." 

Luce's jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed in dislike at the intruder. "You cannot enter here uninvited or unannounced."

The Black Monk unblinkingly dipped forward in a formal greeting. "My Queen. Your Majesty."

Charles's almost nonexistent pupils found his figure. His lips almost imperceptibly curled up. Contrary to the poor figure Charles was presenting, Bertram had not changed a bit. He stood tall and strong; his many scars all but hidden under the rigid black material the monks of the stoic orders wore; his hair flew wildly to his shoulders; his darkish blue eyes analyzing something Charles could not grasp. 

"Bertram, why have you come here?" Luce cautioned.

Bertram's eyes fixed Charles without batting an eyelash over his deteriorating physical health. "You have permission to speak," Charles finally said, knowing Bertram's particularity of only taking orders from the king himself.

"Although I can take care of most arrangements for your passing, my King, I still need your contribution to the matter of your estate's inheritance."

Charles wearily nodded in understanding, "Luce, I have some matter to attend. You will have to leave now. I will send someone to get you and John after they are dealt with." 

Luce squeezed his hand and gently kissed his forehead where her hand had been carding his hair, "I will be waiting. Do not overdo it."

Her sweet if not sad countenance morphed into cold anger when she passed by Bertram. Luce opened the door with one lingering glance at Charles before closing it again. 

Charles stared pensively at the door. "Bertram, why does my wife suddenly hate you?"

After a moment, Charles raised his gaze to his best friend's figure. "What happened?"

"I could venture a guess. She may have found out about a secret that was better left unspoken," Bertram finally answered, eyes trained on the door. 

Charles coughed. He felt Bertram calloused hands steadying him. 

He looked at the hands splattered in blood. Bertram fetched his cleaning water and a towel. Silently, he cleaned the mess on the king's hands and face, gently rubbing off the iron scent permeating the air. Charles felt exhausted. Was this how humans lived day after day?

"My Liege. Alexander of the Luthor Estate and your son Conand are waiting in the anteroom. The notary is on call. Should we proceed with your inheritance discussion?"

Charles pushed himself upright, with a bit of help from Bertram, to make the best impression possible for his rival. "Show them in."

With a nod, Bertram proceeded to follow his instructions. 

Alexander and his smug face came in first. He bowed with an edge of joy that was misplaced in a dying monarch's bedroom. Conand, on the other hand, fidgeted as he showed his respect. Bertram kept a respectful distance from the discussion while staying within earshot. 

"Majesty," Alexander, the kingdom's utmost competent conjurer, "I heard rumours of your health. Are you in need of my help?"

Bertram scowled in his direction, his extreme dislike of Alexander all but well known. The last time Charles made a deal with Alexander, the man had used part of his soul to create a son for the monarch; he had probably intended in dividing the kingdom between the older "magical" son and his son with Queen Luce and securing his power over the realm. 

"Alexander, I invited you today to clarify my position as to my inheritance." 

Alexander's fingers greedily hooked into each other. 

Charles looked at the son he had disdained and hated for his very existence. Maybe Bertram had been right in that aspect. Maybe he should have gotten to know him before sending him to be trained by royal teachers. 

"Conand, I want you to lead my kingdom."

The child's eyes and Alexander's grin widened at the declaration. 

Conand stepped back, unease in his clumsy frame. "I do not understand, your Majesty."

Charles almost grimaced at the admission. He glanced at Bertram's solemn silhouette, recalling all those times his right-hand man had vigorously argued for the monarch furthering his interactions with Conand.

Now, of all times, Charles had to be responsible. Using his gentler voice, Charles explained, "You shall soon be king, Conand." 

"I..." the child shook. Alexander interrupted the conversation: "You made the right decision, your Majesty. Conand is fit to rule."

Charles glared at Alexander. "I have already prepared a royal edict forbidding you from seeing or communicating with Conand without his express and written consent." 

Alexander blinked in surprise. "Who will guide him through these hard times to come, then, my Liege? He is still a child."

Charles gestured to Bertram. "Bertram of House Wayne will be more than qualified enough to guide my son."

Alexander's lips thinned. "The Red Hood robber still terrorizes the Nottingham woods." 

Charles knew this had always been a stain on Bertram's honour, and worse still, it was a heavier burden for his best friend to carry forward. Charles clenched his fist. 

"Alexander of the Luthor House, I, King Charles..."

Bertram interrupted him, "Your Majesty, I believe it is time to say your farewells." 

Alexander blinked at the Black Monk's intervention, momentarily stunned and confused as to the reason of the interruption. Conand seemed to shy away from Charles as if he was scared of being stricken at. 

Charles glanced at his right hand's rigid stance. Bertram's black robe still hid most of his body away, except for his face facing respectfully down. 

Charles hated it when Bertram intervened in the middle of his business, especially anything concerning the Luthor House. He wasn't in a mood to start another fight. "Alexander, if you have any business to conclude with me, speak now and be on your way."

Alexander bowed. "My Liege, far be it my intention of insulting you. 'Tis my natural conjurer's curiosity that pushes me to ask you one question. Pray, tell me, my Liege, what is killing you?"

Charles almost snorted. Instead, he answered with dignity. "Death is a common end of the road for all of our existences, Alexander."

Alexander's green eyes fixed him with some sort of amusement. "It is. Until now, my Liege, the only known means to end your mortality was the mineral called Kryptonite." Of course, you know, Charles bitterly thought, you were the one who kept using it against me since I first became king. He could feel Bertram's eyes on him. 

"Go and never let me see your face again," Charles ordered. Alexander smirked as he escaped the dying man's room. 

Charles turned to the other guest. "Conand, you will lead this kingdom to greater glory and prosperity." 

Conand went to his knee. "Sir, I will follow your command."

"Stand, child," Charles ordered, "You shall never again bow before anyone."

Conand raised to his feet and bowed. Charles could find no words to tell this estranged child he had never wanted to know. Maybe regret was the tingling sensation burning in his chest. He would never get the chance to set straight his relationship with this young man. Furthermore, he was leaving a very heavy duty on the shoulders of a barely prepared child. 

"Farewell, your Majesty," Conand whispered as he left the room. 

Charles tried not to fell the burn of Bertram's gaze, the one he had used when he disapproved of his king's actions. The silence grew heavy. 

"Bertram, it is time I say my farewells to my friends."

The black robed man nodded and left. 

In came Bartholomew, Hamond, Olyver and Arthur. Bartholomew's eyes were already wet while Hamond looked devasted. Both Olyver and Arthur looked grim. 

"My friends," he stopped them from bowing, "I ask no ceremony. I do not speak as the King, but as your friend to you." He beckoned them closer. 

Bartholomew gave him an embrace, pressing hard in his arms. "Charles." The embrace lasted several heartbreaking moments. Charles was the one who broke the embrace. Bartholomew stood, sniffing, his eyebrows scrunched in pain. The king gave a small smile. "Barry, you were always the kindest of all of us. Thank you for being my friend and following me on this hard road." Bartholomew stepped back with a wordless bow, clearly incapable of saying words.

Olyver came second, his arms wrapping around him and squeezing him. As they separated, Olyver whispered, "Charles, I'm so sorry you are dying. You are too young to die." Charles squeezed his arm. "Thanks, Olyver." Olyver gave him a small solemn nod and stepped back.

Next came Hamond. He gave him an embrace. "Big Blue..." Charles prayed he would have the necessary willpower to see him through the farewells. Maybe some of Hamond's considerable one could be transmitted to him. "Ham, thanks for everything." When Hamond stood, his head was slightly tilted so nobody could see him cry. 

Finally, it came to Arthur's turn. The sea king gave him a hearty embrace, one that wasn't careful to hurt him. One that wouldn't have harmed him if he wasn't weak. Over the Atlante's shoulder, Charles could see Olyver and Bertram staring at one another in some sort of understanding. Before he could ask a question, Arthur released him and said, "Friend. It has been an honour to be your friend." 

"Likewise, likewise," Charles answered with a smile, his trembling hand hidden under the sheets. He would miss them all. Bartholomew and his gentleness; Olyver and his wisdom and anti-authority stance; Hamond and his terrible jokes; Arthur and his straightforwardness. His loyal companions surrounding him at his deathbed. He was truly blessed to be amongst their legends. 

Charles felt himself choke under the emotion. Still, it was time to say his farewells. To them. To this life. To the adventures. 

"Thank you," Charles quietly said, everyone's attention fixed on him. "Thank you for going on this adventure with me. Thank you for being my friends. Thank you for everything you did for me. We part now, but I believe our adventures will never truly end."

Arthur laughed. "Valhalla awaits the worthy. We shall meet again."

Olyver gave a wry smile and Hamond gave Bartholomew a clap on his back. Just like that, the awkwardness was gone.

They talked. Of their many adventures, of their kids, of everything under the sun... and nothing. Charles laughed. It was time to part of their company. He was tiring. 

The circle of friends dispersed. One by one, they said their farewells and they were gone, the last one being Olyver. He gave a nod in Bertram's direction before passing the doorsill. 

It was then Charles remembered Bertram's sombre and almost invisible presence in the room. The man had stood distantly outside of the circle, not contributing to any of the conversations.

"B?" 

Bertram's gaze found him in a way that told Charles it hadn't left him. 

Charles swallowed. "You know, I never really questioned I was dying because I felt it here." He touched his chest. "I know I am dying." His words felt fragile as they echoed in the vast room. 

Bertram stepped forward. "You are."

Charles sighed and gripped his sheets. "I was foolish enough to hold out for a miracle. We always seemed to conjure miracles, you especially. Somehow, I thought we would cheat Death again."

Bertram walked to his bedside. "At one point, we all have to pay our dues."

Charles nodded, shaky. "Is Diamanda back yet?" 

The Black Monk nodded. 

"I want to see her."

Bertram left the room again. Charles watched the blue sky outside. Could he fly in Heaven and feel the weight of the wind? Could he carry people in Heaven? 

John, his son, giggled when they played in the clouds. Charles could even get a timid smile out of Bertram... well, he once did, but that was before he had become the Black Monk. Charles tried to remember the last time he had carried his best friend in his arms for a reason that was not fighting. Years, he realized with a start. It had been years. 

When had the time gone? Yesterday it seems, he had found the nobleman in the woods, planning to return to the Wayne Estate. That had been Charles's very first adventure. Back then, they were both inexperienced at life, Charles more so than Bertram. "Fools," Bertram's gruff voice would probably now say. 

Charles smiled. That, they had been.

The door opened and Diamanda strutted in, graceful in her armours, Bertram falling behind her as he closed the door. 

Diamanda was not one to hesitate. Without asking for permission, she sat on Charles's bed and pulled his head in her lap, caressing his hair. "You don't need to pretend you're stronger than you are. I'll always take on your burdens," she murmured, eyes sad. 

Charles wanted to keep looking at her, but he suddenly felt tired, really tired, and it felt so good to be taken care of like a child like he didn't have to prepare everyone for his own death. The burden melted away as sleep carried him away. 

When his mind slowly grew aware again, he heard Diamanda singing a Greek's song about partings. He slowly opened his eyes to see her own looking at him with the tenderness of a mother to her child. Maybe in her eyes, they were all her children. 

His chest tightened again. He'd miss this too. 

"How did it go?" he finally asked. 

She hummed. "The preparations are all done. But, that's no longer your fight, Kal. Your fight is coming to an end. You have been brave. You have been strong. You have been kind. That's what matters."

"It did?" he couldn't stop the uncertainty from slipping into his voice. 

Diamanda flashed her startlingly white teeth. Demi-Goddess, indeed. She carded his hair back. "It does, Kal. I love you and I'll always love you, gentle soul. I'll let you settle into your long sleep peacefully. May our path cross again."

Diamanda gently pushed him back into the bed and kissed his forehead. "Farewell, beloved Kal."

Charles squeezed her hand tight and lets her go. His eyes aren't completely dry when she leaves the room. 

After a moment, he remembered Bertram was still in the room. 

"B." 

"Yes?" the silent presence at his side answered. 

Charles closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath. "Bring Luce and John in."

Bertram left the room. 

Charles relaxed his jaw. This is worse than facing an army armed with Kryptonite. It is so emotionally draining he wants to sleep again. 

Luce and John came in. "Father!" 

John ran in his arms and Charles buried him in his arms. This is truly the hard part. 

He'll never see his son grow up to be a man. He'll never see his son marry and have children. He'll miss every one of his child's coming moments; he won't be there when John will need a sympathic ear; he won't be there when he wants to talk excitingly about his 'adventures'; he won't be there to comfort him. In Charles's place, there'll be a void, an absence, a shadow. 

This time, Charles cannot stop the tears from pouring down his cheeks. He wants to hold on and never, ever, let go. No harm would ever befell his sweet John. Charles can't ever let him get kidnapped again. He swore he'd protect his kingdom, but his son always came first. 

He could feel the moistness on his chest. Charles smiled through his watery face: his son had taken his cry baby habits. Luce's hand on his back is still as grounding as ever. 

It's unfair to have their family ripped apart.

They talk. Charles spouts nonsense and important instructions without transitions. 

Father and son hold on to each other for a very long time. So much so that the sky is darkening and the candles in the room are lit. 

In the furthest corner of the room, he could feel Bertram's presence. Like death, he's always there as a quiet reminder of what's to come. 

Charles lets his son go and his heart broke. And all of his horses and all his men couldn't put it back together again. 

He whispered the last of his words to his family, feeling the weight of choosing the right ones. The sun was disappearing, and, with it, he knew his strength would fade. 

Charles had one last person he needed to see before his death.

Luce had to tear away from her son from her dying husband and out they went, Bertram on their heels. Charles closed his eyes and focused on the oncoming conversation, the one that would reveal why Luce suddenly hated Bertram. John was sent to another room and Luce spoke, venom in her voice. 

"You poisoned him," she hissed, "with shards of Kryptonite he entrusted you with."

Bertram calmly answered, "I did."

There was a dazzling silence, one in which Charles felt the world tilt in its axis. 

"I should have you kill right here, right now," Luce said. 

"You could," Bertram replied, "But you know I should be the one guiding Conand to usher in a new era. You know I am the one who can and will stop this war from happening."

Charles heard Luce slap Bertram hard. "I loathe you."

"You have every right to loathe me. I tore apart your family. John lost his father and, you, your husband," Bertram replied. There was the vaguest wince in the words. 

Luce grabbed Bertram's black clothing in a fist and pulled him down. Charles could hear the barely concealed anger, frustration and tears in her voice."Why would you even do this?"

There was the lengthiest pause before Bertram answered, "You, more than anyone else, know why I did this. That's the only reason you are not going to tell anyone else. Maybe you think I went too far, but, on some level, you approve of my solution." There was a slight silence before he continued. "The Jester is dead. John is safe now. There will be no wars because the king is dead."

Luce released him. "I curse you, Bertram of House Wayne, to feel the full weight of your betrayal."

Luce stomped away.

Bertram stood outside of the king's chambers for a long time, watching the door in which Luce had disappeared. He walked back in the king's chambers.

Charles lied on his bed, eyes closed, still as beautiful as he had always been. He looked even more vulnerable than when they had first slept in the same bedding all those years ago. The impression might have been magnified by the soft candlelight's light playing upon his paling skin. 

Bertram's hand fondly sought to caress the man's soft hair, the one he hadn't allowed himself to touch since Luce had appeared in Charles' life. The Black Monk had been a convenient nickname to hide the truth behind his lack of interest in women or anyone else, for that matter. 

His hand was grabbed in a vice grip that made Bertram flinch. He could feel the burn of Charles's angry red eyes. On the verge of death, Charles was still strong enough to shatter him with one simple move. Bertram did not even try to struggle out of the grip. 

"My Liege."

Bertram could hear the bones in his arm creak at an increase of pressure. 

"Who turned you against me? Who are you working for?" Charles articulated in a way that showed he was barely in control of his powers. 

Bertram felt like a doll in a vindictive child's care. 

"I work for you, my Liege."

The bones in his arm snapped in half. Bertram suppressed a cry at the pain. 

"Liar," Charles angrily responded, eyes turning fiercer. "Who made you betray me?" 

Bertram looked into Charles's eyes and he saw his death. It was a comforting thought for a weary man such as he. 

Blood seeped through his black sleeves and into the king's bed. 

Bertram started, "Long before I ever swore an oath to King Charles, I swore an oath to a young foolish knight. He was a gullible child who didn't know how the world really worked." 

Bertram closed his eyes, reminiscing the days when the gaze aimed at him had been frustrated, curious, kind or soft. Bertram had been obsessed with reclaiming his parents' Estate and Charles had been the lighter presence at his side, the soft breeze of summer hay, the apple's crunchiness at the apex of the season, a fine mead's soft aftertaste. Charles's smile was the sun breaking at dawn and his warmth had been a furnace in the coldest winters' nights. 

Bertram had sworn on his parents' graves he would help Charles create his impossibly peaceful world. 

Nowadays, overlooking the kingdom they had fought to save, Bertram could no longer be sure whether he had sworn the oath for Charles's blues eyes or for the idealism Charles had stood for. 

The dream died in Charles somewhere along the road to power. 

The Black Monk had enshrined it in himself. He was wholly and completely dedicated to it. He needed no wines, no sex, no games and no wars to be content. 

It was time for the Bertram to face his fate. He opened his eyes. "I swore to uphold his values, my Liege." 

Charles pursed his lips while his forehead twitched with an effort to refrain from killing the man in front of him. 

"You poisoned me because I could not be held to the standard you imposed on me? You destroyed the time I had with my son and wife because of a young man's idealism dying in the complexity of our reality?" The voice shook with fury. 

Bertram sadly looked at him. "The notary is still waiting."

The king's anger fell away, melting into bitter tiredness. His duty still awaited.

Charles pushed back Bertram's damaged arm. "Bring him in." Bertram bowed, not caring about his arm's strange angle. 

The sun's last lights in the sky were disappearing to whatever was on the other side. Charles's eyes were no longer burning. Death was coming and it didn't really matter who had set her in motion now. He was tired of fighting. Especially with Bertram.

The notary walked in with his scrolls and bowed profoundly before verifying his will was still the same. Charles agreed nothing had changed. Witnesses were sought and the document was signed. 

Charles was left alone in the room with Bertram by his bedside, his arms still bent at an odd angle. For a while nobody said anything. 

Bertram, for the first time that day, spoke first. "Should I get Luce and John?"

Charles snorted. "Now, you ask my opinion? After you murdered me?" 

Bertram fell silent. 

The lights outside had died. Charles had no more tears, no more anger to pour. Instead, he looked at the wall opposite Bertram's position.

"Do you remember Ma's stew?" Charles finally said. It was strange that was the topic he wanted to discuss as he lied dying in his bed beside his murderer and best friend. 

"I do."

Charles looked at the ceiling. "Do you think they make them like that in Heaven?" 

Bertram chuckled. Charles hadn't heard that sound in a very long time. 

"Only if she cooks for everyone. I don't think it is possible to replicate it."

"That's what I thought too," Charles muttered. "She'd always talk about her special ingredient."

After a moment, Charles quietly continued, "Stews never tasted the same after she died."

He felt Bertram's hand on his forehead. He didn't lean into it, but neither did he flinch away. 

"You'll taste it again, soon," Bertram promised, voice impossibly soft. "She's probably making a big batch right now to welcome you. Your father will have the ridiculous clothes he got swindled with but still thinks is the best barter he ever did. They are preparing a big feast for your arrival."

Charles eyes closed. "Do you think your parents would be invited? I never knew them, but I've always wanted to know them."

After a slight hesitation, Bertram answered. "They will be there."

Charles hummed, feeling somewhat at peace. 

"Every year I went back home for the anniversary of their death since we reclaimed the Estate, I told them all about you, Charles."

The voice cracked but the hand cupped his cheek. "I'm sure they'd like to finally meet you."

"I hate you for stealing away my son's precious time with me." Charles finally said, breaking the fragile fantasy apart. 

Bertram's good hand, now placed on his cheek, trembled. "I know." 

Charles felt himself drift away into sleep. He wanted to add something, but his mouth no longer worked. He would tell Bertram the next time they met. 

Bertram felt Charles heartbeat stop and his muscle relax in death, the burden finally lifted from his shoulders. "Farewell, Charles." Bertram had no right to touch him.

Steadying himself on the wall, Bertram had work to do before the end of the night. He let himself glance back once at the dead king. 

Soon, the bells would ring. Soon, they would announce the king dead and name the new king. One that would need guidance and wisdom. 

There was to be no rest for the Black Monk. There will never be until he had fulfilled his oath.

**Author's Note:**

> I still have no idea why I wrote this... Hopefully, some of you will like it anyway.


End file.
